


storms stir

by letthemysterybe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And they are drama queens, Bellamione have children, F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7847332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthemysterybe/pseuds/letthemysterybe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione and Bellatrix's eldest comes of age in a world that doesn't want her to exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	storms stir

_“Merlin’s goddamned shit-stained saggy-crotched underthings—”_

A scoff. “How uncouth, Minerva. Care to enlighten us—”

McGonnagall cast a wordless silencing spell on Phenias Nigellus’ portrait before the former headmaster could finish his thought. Fuming, she pinned the rest of her wall-relegated company with a glare to end all glares, insinuating without words what their fate would be if they did not refrain from commentary.

The message was received and the insipid hunks of canvas held their tongues. Confident she would not be interrupted again, the Headmistress did not bother to stifle another colorful string of curses as she barreled through the office on the way to her desk.

Minerva McGonagall was too damn old for this.

She’d seen a lot—the rise and fall of the most feared wizard of all time and the two wars it led to, child soldiers with the fate of the world in their hands, people dying, people coming back from the dead, some most unexpected shifting of alliances, so much fighting, so much chaos, so many last-ditch uprisings (rag-tag as they were) in the years that followed the War’s official end.

She’d survived so much and had come out the other side relatively intact, relatively sane, relatively alive—none of which could be said for many of the people she’d known—and yet, today, the Headmistress felt beyond her years.

The door opened with a soft click and the subject of her ire waltzed into her office.

A shining grin. “Headmistress? You wanted to see me?”

Infuriatingly casual, the girl was. Always confident and lionhearted no matter the situation, as her Red and Gold attire suggested she ought to be. Nervy and brash, but Godric-be-damned, able to sway even the most resolute of disciplinarians by being maddeningly genial about things.

Minerva sighed.

Years ago, she had been sure Potter and his delinquent gang of hooligans would be the death of her. And she had been right—oh, how she’d been right.

Just off by a generation.

“Us,” another voiced called from around the corner. A seething form, sleeker, slighter, and clad in Blue and Bronze, made it’s way into Minerva’s office. “She wanted to see us, Cal, which is why I was right behind you a moment ago when you decided to _close the door on my arm—”_

“Not my issue, walk faster—” the girl in question quipped, unfazed, easy smile widening. She never lost eye contact with the Headmistress.

“—my wand arm, you miserable slag—”

“Ladies—”

“—then don’t dawdle. Simple reasoning skills—”

“—a foot behind you the entire walk over here—”

_“Ladies—”_

“—do they not teach you Ravenclaw losers that?”

 _“Miss Granger!”_ was the exasperated last-ditch effort.

“Yes?” The two young women answered together. They spared each other an annoyed glance—being on the same page was their least favorite pastime—before the older of the pair gave McGonagall her million-watt smile once more.

_Cheeky little…_

The younger, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed at her appalling show of manners.

“Sit.”

The Granger-Children did.

Minerva, momentarily appeased, took in juxtaposition: young Raven went down gently to the edge of her seat, back pin-straight, hands in her lap and sheepish gaze turned toward the floor, while her sister plopped unceremoniously onto the waiting armchair with a thud, cheek resting lazily on fist and expression still disarmingly cheerful.

Minerva’s nostrils flared in agitation. Of course that was how it was going to go. Charms and wiles and heartstrings plucked, as always. She had been an unenthused victim in the past.

 _Not today._ The Headmistress would be damned if she let the little witch beguile her way out of this one.

But the truth was the girl always did. It was less in her words and more in her gaze—the one that pierced the Headmistress in that very moment—that often did people in. Somehow, despite her penchant for chaos and her absolute lack of shame in causing it, a gentle and hypnotizing openness made its home in the girl, evident in her friendly and inviting stare. She could make a person feel like they were the only one in the room full of hundreds. She used it to her advantage.

There had been countless times since the girl began her schooling when their eyes would meet amongst the bustle of the Great Hall and Minerva would be overcome with motherly affection. The girl would smile and the corner of her eyes would crinkle and she’d wave and…well, for a second Minerva’s troubles would melt away with the improbability of it all.

And then she would do something absolutely devious the instant Minerva looked away—like the time she had set her cousin Scorpius’ hair on fire, or the time she slipped Puking Pastilles into the Hufflepuff team captain’s pumpkin juice right before an evening match, or the time she bewitched the floating candles in the Great Hall to spell out something unrepeatable—and the illusion of innocence would shatter.

She’d use the same bag of tricks to soothe things over when she was finally caught, too; she never denied the things she did, but always managed to lessen her punishment with charm and sheer force of will, bringing out the bleeding heart Minerva or whichever unlucky professor was cursed with the job of disciplining her. Minerva would have pegged her as part Veela, if she wasn’t so clearly both of her Mothers’ daughter.

_Focus…_

And yet again, the Headmistress got lost for a moment, as she always did when met with this unlikely child. Her sister, too, but she…she was the first. The unexpected (and for a time, the un-accepted). Tumbling black hair and disarming hazel eyes spoke of a future that no one thought could exist. There was an encouraging purity about it, a confusing but not unwelcome ‘How the fuck did we end up here?’ every single time Minerva looked at the girl—

 _And dammit, the insufferable little shit knew it!_ She absolutely knew it and as always, milked history and family ties for all they were worth.

_No. No, no. Absolutely bloody not._

Minerva reminded herself of the issue at hand and quickly refocused her gaze between the young woman’s eyes.

The girl in question, however, took this as a victory and forged ahead at Minerva’s subtle surrender.

“Has Mum invited you for tea over the holiday, ma’am?”

"Miss Granger." Minerva’s tone was stern. The girl didn’t care.

“If she hasn’t, then I am now. I’ve transfigured all of Isla’s summer robes into toilet tissue and I’d love for you to see.”

Isla, as she was called, huffed and rolled her eyes at this but said nothing. For she was capable of self-control and avoidant of self-destruction, unlike her bolder, brassier counterpart. And Minerva was grateful that at least one of these spawns had something vaguely resembling respect for authority.

"Miss Granger, as impressive and as charming as that is,” and here the young Gryffindor blushed, always one to enjoy her ego being stroked, “you know very well why you’re here.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“And you know how I feel about digressions.”

“My apologies, ma’am.”

Minerva sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed, doubting that reclaiming the upper hand could be so easy.

“I can’t say I expected personal congratulations from the Headmistress herself,” the girl continued, and Minerva had the overwhelming urge to bang her head on her desk, “but the hat trick I pulled off at the spring opener does have the potential to become the stuff of legend, so I welcome praise where praise is due.”

“Young lady, do not play games with me—”

“Games, ma’am?”

"We are absolutely not here to discuss quidditch.”

“Ma’am? Then I’m sorry but I must plead ignorance.”

“Callidora.”

Each syllable dripped warning and Callidora’s smile faltered infinitesimally; first-name from the M-Named spoke levity. Even Isla stiffened.

“Yes, ma’am?” But steady voice faltered not.

“Anthony Fletcher.”

(Isla whimpered and her eyes widened. Minerva took note.)

“Ah, the poor fella. How is he?”

_“Callidora.”_

“Ma’am?”

“You know very well how he is.”

“I know he’s a miserable sodding jerk, ma’am.”

(Isla blanched. Confrontation was something she avoided and her sister’s insistence on sheer pig-headedness in the face of authority made her quite…uncomfortable.)

“Right. And do you know he’s currently unconscious in the infirmary?”

“He is? Good.”

“Excuse me? Callidora—”

“I’m serious about tea, I’m grounded for the toilet tissue so I’ll be spending all holiday holed up with this idiot and my mothers. I’d rather love a distraction—”

“Miss Granger!”

Isla’s face was in her hands now and her body trembled with anxiety. Callidora rolled her eyes and turned to her sister, glancing her up and down as if her mere presence was an aggravation. “My God! Ease up on the dramatics, will you?”

"No, Callidora, you ease up on the impertinence! Your sister has the right idea. This is an incredibly serious situation you’ve caused, one that you cannot and will not talk your way out of.”

“I’ve caused, Ma’am?”

“Yes!”

“Pardon me, Ma’am, but how’s that figure? Because I’m quite sure he started it.”

"He started—? Callidora Granger, I don’t care who started it! I care that you are sitting in front of me right now, completely unscathed and insufferably aloof, while Anthony Fletcher and several others are in the medical wing in decidedly worse shape than you!”

“To be fair, ma’am, the others were collateral damage.”

_“You knocked Anthony Fletcher unconscious and bewitched eight bludgers to attack the entire Slytherin quidditch team!”_

(“Oh god oh god oh god,” under breath from the miserable third party.)

“No!

_"No?"_

“No! There were only six bludgers, and I didn’t bewitch them to attack anyone in particular, I just bewitched them to _attack._ They chose not to get out of the way. Sounds like a case of unreliable witnesses—Ma’am.” The honorific was a hasty afterthought, which only added to Minerva’s perturbation.

“How convenient for you. Tell me, when you dosed Mr. Fletcher’s unconscious body with Draught of Living Death did he _choose_ that, too?”

“Yes, because if he hadn't been such a damned dirty jock-strap I wouldn’t’ve had to do it,” Callidora declared with a smirk.

Both girls jumped as Minerva’s chair shrieked upon stone. They watched, Isla wide-eyed and Callidora a touch less unaffected than before, as the Headmistress stood abruptly, stalking to the large window behind her desk.

Albus’ sparkling and sympathetic eyes caught hers on the way but he kept his mouth shut, as he had no desire to become that evening’s kindling for the fireplace. And in that moment Minerva envied him for dying first. For getting out when he did. For only having to manage ONE generation of trouble-making, rule-breaking, bedlam-causing, hormone-fueled children.

She sighed, collecting herself so she didn’t hex the smug expression off the girl’s face right then and there.

From her spot at the window she noticed flock of red-heads making their way across the courtyard, the group of Weasley cousins and siblings all enjoying the freedom of a post mid-term afternoon. They smiled and laughed, no doubt excited to spend the upcoming Easter Holiday with their extended family, enjoying their grandmother’s famous cooking and inevitably teaming up with their Uncle George to cause some type of trouble. They seemed happy. At Ease. Minerva’s heart swelled.

She envied Albus, but more than anything, she pitied him. For tainting the relationships he did have with plotting and meddling, for sullying them with words like “prophecy” and “chosen one” and “greater good.”

He’d never really loved his students. He’d been fond of them. He’d guided them and mentored them. He’d favored them. Nothing less, of course, but nothing more.

Her affection for these children, on the other hand, ran hot and fierce—while they were within these walls they were _hers_ —these two especially, but not exclusively; the Potters, the Weasleys, even the Malfoy Heir…she nurtured them. She encouraged them. She disciplined them for their own good, obviously, but she never wanted them to resent her. She never wanted to fail them. She was responsible for their safety, as Albus had been, but what set her apart was how she _longed_ for their happiness. She would never let them suffer as their parents had.

And she knew they knew that. Minerva knew that as much of a headache as they often were, on purpose or otherwise, they were grateful for her presence in their lives. She knew they respected her as much as she respected them.

Which was exactly how she knew there was a missing piece to this puzzle, how she knew that explanation held the key. (She also knew that dragging that sort information out of Callidora was often akin to pulling teeth, and thus she felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on).

With a sigh, and against her better judgement, she turned to the girls once more. Isla watched her with nervous eyes; Callidora just watched her.

“Why?” Minerva threw the life-line, surprising herself—she was one to punish first and ask questions later. She was quite sure, however, that Callidora would rather tread water or drown.

"I don't know. Ask him."

Quite sure indeed.

“I can’t! He’s unconscious!”

"Well…” Callidora shrugged, as if that was an end to the conversation.

 _“Why?_ Do not make me ask you again.”

Callidora looked at her then, really looked at her in earnest, as if considering confession—but the girl did despise being reasonable:

“Because he’s an arse, ma’am.”

“Language, young lady—”

“He’s a right bloody arse—they all are, ma’am, him and his gang of shit-eating idiot Slytherins—”

_“Language.”_

“I’m sorry, Headmistress, but that’s why. I respect you too much to lie to you and seeing as I’ve never told a lie in my life I’d hate to start now.”

Isla, who had remained mostly uninvolved until this point, let out a disbelieving guffaw.

Callidora leapt out of her chair, easily distracted by any opportunity to antagonize her sibling.

“Oi! What’s that about, then? You calling me a liar?”

When her sister continued to laugh in incredulity, the Gryffindor lunged and punched her in the shoulder.

“Hey!” Isla grabbed a fistful of her sister’s hair and yanked in response.

The situation quickly devolved. Elbows found ribs and hands found ears and Minerva’s patience found its limits.

_“For Godric’s Sake!”_

This stopped the girls mid-brawl, and it would have been a hilarious sight—two pairs of wide eyes looking at her in surprise, one set of hands stopped mid hair-pull and the other set still holding fistfuls of robe—yes, it would have been funny, if it was any other pair of students, any other day, any other circumstances—but as it stood, Minerva was decidedly not amused.

 _“Honestly._ How do they keep the two of you from attempting to murder each other at home?”

“They don’t,” was the synchronous response, and once again, the Granger-Spawns shared a glare. It went on this time, a mutual challenge to see who would look away first.

Minerva made sure to end it before either of them got the satisfaction.

“Ladies. Please.”

And it was the tiredness in her plea that caught the girls’ attention. Two curly heads turned toward her, taking in her pinched and exhausted expression.

_Too damn old. Too damn old._

They gave up their battle (stored it away for another time) and returned to their respective chairs, looking deliberately away from each other. Minerva sat as well.

“Thank you.” It was hardly sincere. “Anyways, Isla, you’re in no position to laugh. You’ve been as incriminated in this mess as your sister.”

_“ME?”_

“Indeed, you.” Minerva knew the Ravenclaw had thought she was here as a witness, as a fail-safe for Callidora’s more sunny recounting of events that would inevitably come when explaining the ordeal to their parents. It was often the arrangement—but not this time.

“No offense, Callidora,” and she turned to the young lioness, all wild hair and bright eyes, “but you could not potion your way out of a paper bag.”

Callidora had the audacity to giggle at this, not offended in the slightest. Even Minerva’s lips twitched minutely despite the situation.

It was a castle-wide joke that the eldest Granger was notorious for outright refusing to learn things she wasn’t already good at—that she either earned the top grade in her class or skirted by with the bare minimum. She was a natural dueler: fast, strong, and unapologetic in her fury. The sheer arsenal of spells she’d mastered required innate intelligence and incredible magical ability—of which Callidora was not short—but old-fashioned quill-and-parchment learner she was not.

Well, she could have been, if she’d wanted to be, but put Callidora Granger in any situation she was not 110% motivated to constructively participate in, and you’d get the world’s most obstinate, inflexible pile of complaints and excuses: _“But I don’t want to.” “When will I ever need this?” “It’s booooooring.” “If I add this, Professor, will it explode?”_

“We don’t keep that particular draught in the Hogwarts inventory, _as it is very dangerous and not to be used lightly,”_ the Headmistress went on, “and since Callidora wouldn’t brew a potion outside of the classroom if her life depended on it, my money’s on you for Undesirable Number 2.”

“But—Headmistress, she _stole_ that potion from me!”

“Objection, your honor. Have you any witnesses?”

Minerva ignored the interjection and continued,

“Isla, how she got it from you is irrelevant. Why did you make it in the first place?”

“I—um.” She blushed and cleared her throat. “I was…bored.”

“So you brewed Draught of Living Death? An advanced and quite treacherous sleeping potion that can be deadly when made incorrectly? Isla, Sopophorous Beans are a controlled substance! They are regulated by the Ministry of Magic due to their toxic and hallucinogenic effects—we can’t even keep them on school grounds until it’s time for that specific 6th Year Potions lesson. Where in Godric’s name did you get them?”

“Oh, you won’t believe it when she tells you!” Callidora cackled, positively gleeful to be bringing someone down with her.

Isla’s face reddened, both with rage at her sister and embarrassment at her current predicament. She was the type to divulge everything once cornered—cunning and sly, no qualms breaking the rules, but she hated hated _hated_ getting caught.

She broke easily under the pressure.

“…I grew them.” Was the quiet confession.

“Come again?”

“I grew them, Ma’am.”

_Godric Fucking Gryffindor be damned..._

“Where? How?” Minerva could not believe what she was hearing.

“In one of the greenhouses. I-I charmed a section to be accessible only to me and that’s where I grow the things I can’t find in the Potions cl—”

“Oh, do go on.”

“The…Potions classroom…”

Of course. _Of course._

“So you steal ingredients from the Hogwarts stock and you grow the ingredients that are too dangerous for us to keep here? And I’m assuming you do all of this after curfew, too, or else you would have been caught by now.”

“Y-yes, Headmistress.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean, Headmistress?”

 _“I mean_ what do you do with your stockpile of forbidden potions? Once you’ve finished stealing ingredients and running around castle grounds after hours to make them?”

Isla had not anticipated this question, it seemed. 

“I…" She paused and took a deep breath, realizing in that exact moment the tremendous amount of trouble she was about to be in. "I sell them, Ma’am," she confessed, ashamed and defeated.

“You _WHAT?”_

“I sell them.” Her face was in her hands, now.

_“To whom?”_

Isla peeked out and up at the Headmistress from between her fingers, her voice a desperate squeak. “Well, anyone Ma’am. Students that need to get out of a test or have a score to settle or…I don’t know, I try not to ask too many questions.”

“Isla, don’t sell yourself short! Do tell her about your contacts in Hogsmeade,” Callidora cackled once more.

“Cal!” Isla whined.

“No—you know what?” Minerva interrupted what was surely about to become another familial brawl. “Don’t tell me yet. Hearing it once will surely send me into enough of a rage to induce cardiac arrest, and seeing as I’ve called your mothers and they will be here any minute, I’d hate for my dead body to be what welcomes them into my office. So let’s wait, shall we?”

Minerva had entered the territory of anger so white-hot that it bubbled under her skin, slowly building in anticipation of a glorious eruption—but until that eruption occurred she existed in a state of eerie, insane calm.

"Tea, dears?”

She summoned a pot and cups and watched as the color drained from two panic-stricken faces.

“You…what now?” At the threat of mothers—or one in particular—Callidora managed _something_ that _may_ have been _almost_ concern.

“I’ve called your mothers.” Minerva repeated, and filled a plate with biscuits; sugar would do well for the show to come.

"As in plural?”

"As in both.”

Isla sprang into action, now; panic mode was activated.

“Great job! Great job. Callidora, you stupid sodding bully!” She was frantic, pacing. “There goes June at the beach. There goes The World Cup with the Weasleys. There goes Hogsmeade until you very well graduate, until _I very well graduate—you’ve fucked us, Cal—”_

“Language, Miss Granger—”

Callidora joined the frenzy, and both girls approached her desk and begged desperately for understanding, for compromise—

"Surely, Headmistress, surely the one is enough—”

“Mother will do fine, Mum can’t be bothered, she’s so busy, this isn’t worth it—”

 _“Minerva please,_ as your child by two degrees of death _please—”_

_“ENOUGH!”_

_Too. Fucking. Old._

“The two of you have put an entire quidditch team in the infirmary! You’ve broken enough school rules you ought to be expelled—And to be frank, I’ve given the idea some thought. I have parents sending me howlers threatening my position if proper action fails to be taken. They’re questioning my ability to unbiasedly run this school due to our—relationship. They want you _gone.”_

A question hung in the air: _Would you do it?_

And Minerva didn’t know the answer. She loved these girls. She’d watched them grow, hell, she’d stepped in to help raise them for a time when—when—back then.

Callidora had quite an impressive wrap sheet, always in and out of her office for some reason or another, often with a Weasley accomplice or two—but she wasn’t a bad person. She just acted out sometimes. A lot. Always. But for reasons the Headmistress could often sympathize with despite herself. If one considered her parents, after all, the personality quirks made sense.

Isla’s record, on the other hand, was spotless beyond the occasional fight with her sister that landed them both in detention. She was otherwise exponentially more well behaved, though it was becoming clear to Minerva that she may have just been quieter about the rules she chose to break.

And this was very much an offense punishable by expulsion, but so early in the girl’s tenure? She had so much potential, so much dedication. She was a mess when it came to the practical end of Defense Against the Dark Arts but an absolute prodigy with Potions and Herbology, and was even making tremendous strides in Transfiguration. What would become of her if she got kicked out of school in her third year? What a waste it would be!

So despite her anger (and Godric was she absolutely _inscensed),_ despite every professional bone in her body shouting at her to be practical, to be fair, to do what she would do to any other student in this situation, Minerva found herself…unwilling.

“You know I don’t want to do that,” she sighed (in defeat, in exhaustion, in frustration—she didn’t know what). “Which is why, when they get here, I _need_ you to start explaining yourselves.”

Isla look desperately at her sister, bright black eyes pleading with her to cooperate, to be agreeable for once, and to Minerva’s surprise she saw Callidora falter. A pained, almost haunted expression made its way onto the young Gryffindor’s face and for a moment the girl just looked exhausted.

It was an expression The Headmistress had noticed her wearing more and more frequently in the recent months. It wasn’t obvious to anyone who didn’t know her well—and perhaps it wasn’t obvious to those who did, as Callidora was certainly popular and had a large gaggle of friends that seemed to swarm around her constantly—but Minerva didn’t miss the whisper of weariness in usually bright and scheming eyes. She didn’t miss the far-off looks during Transfiguration lectures, or how notes turned into distracted scribbles until quill ripped through parchment, or how the smiles and laughter and jokes at other people’s expense (even if they did still disrupt her class) seemed more forced than they’d ever been.

Minerva had figured the stress of NEWT Levels were getting to her, that she was finally realizing she couldn’t talk her way out of bad marks and into a career. Or maybe it was the recent shift in the political climate and all the unsavory business that entailed, that the pressure and visibility of exactly who she was, who her parents were, was chipping away at her unbothered mien.

And when the girl finally turned to Minerva, when they finally locked eyes and all pretense had fallen away, the Headmistress could tell that it was probably all of those things. But she could also tell it was something else entirely.

They stayed like that for a moment—silent, watching each other, Minerva begging without words for the girl to trust her, to communicate, to stop being so mulish when she was around someone who was practically family, while Callidora seemed to be at war with herself. Minerva watched as hazel eyes flickered with—what was it? Insecurity? Fear? She couldn’t tell, but she could tell that the girl was so close to giving in, so close to unraveling the impetus behind this huge bloody mess.

Callidora looked up at the ceiling for the briefest of moments, then back at Minerva, and when the young witch opened her mouth to speak the Headmistress felt a weight lift off her shoulders—

—A weight that fell right back down on her as a dark and stormy form chose that moment to Floo into her office. Callidora instantly shook herself out of her vulnerable reverie, schooled her features, straightened her back and crossed her arms defiantly. Whatever chance Minerva had to get through to her was over. For now.

She didn’t have much time to wallow over the missed opportunity.

“If you think I’m going to get blamed for you two being barbaric and reckless _again,”_ Bellatrix Granger-Formerly-Lestrange-née-Black said as she shook ash from her unruly mane and Auror robes, “then you’d better fucking reconsider.”

Minerva sighed; the children took after both parents to varying degrees but undoubtedly shared this one’s knack for profanity.

“You have three minutes before she gets here and that is three minutes to come up with a story that has absolutely no detail that can be traced back to me. None,” Bellatrix threatened. She glared at her children as she spoke, frenzied and deadly serious. “No hex I taught you, no jinx I had the terrible fucking judgement to think you could be responsible with and not use against someone else. _Nothing._ Make something up. I don’t care what you did or what you say, just _leave me out of it.”_

"Is she mad?" Isla asked, worrying her bottom lip.

Callidora remained uncharacteristically stoic in the face of this new arrival, but Minerva noticed how her hands twitched and her jaw tensed. The girl stared pointedly over Bellatrix’s shoulder, but whether she was avoiding eye contact or preparing for the next inevitable visitor, the Headmistress couldn’t tell.

“Is she—?” Bellatrix scoffed. “Mad is the least of your worries. _I’m_ mad. She’s _livid._ She’s fucking fuming.” The dark witch let out an agitated growl. She looked absolutely harried.

“And I honestly don’t blame her—because God forbid you go a half a term being on marginally good behavior, right? Why would we ever dream of that?” She began pacing in front of the fire place, punctuating her rant with dramatic gesticulation.

“We were so close, so close to making it to Easter Holiday without having to get notified about one of you being unmanageable. You could have done anything once you were home, she wouldn’t care, as long you didn’t drag other fucking people into it, a ministry official’s son, someone who already makes everyday a nightmare for her. I am going to hear about this all week, all month most likely, especially if she finds away to spin it as my influence on you!” She let out a guttural, frustrated sound.

“One bloody term. One bloody fucking term and you couldn’t do it. Of course—Nothing is ever easy with the two of you!”

Callidora chose this moment to speak up.

“You done, Mother?”

Bellatrix’s head snapped toward her.

 _“Do not,_ young lady. Do. Not. You better drop the attitude. Whatever teenage angst has your ass chapped today, I do not want to hear it. And your Mother especially does not want to hear it. And I _especially_ do not want to hear her go on and on about how she does not want to hear it.”

Callidora rolled her eyes and huffed.

“Whatever,” she said under her breath.

Her mother shot her a warning glance, but before either of them could say anything further, the fire swelled once more.

All the occupants of the room tensed.

“Think fast,” Bellatrix warned, and stepped out of the way, lest she be bulldozed by the tempest that was her wife when angry.

As a familiar shape began to take form, two young faces paled. Another schooled itself and braced for the inevitable. The last one—the most tired and haggard and aged of them all—prepared to witness a slaughter.

Hermione, of course, wasted no time once she materialized, still engulfed in green flames as a piercing _“YOU DID WHAT?”_ filled the room.

She’d never been one to dance around an issue.

Three Grangers frantically answered in chorus:

 _“I_ didn’t.”

“Mummy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Mum, please, it’s not what you think—”

"I had absolutely nothing to do with this, darling—”

"It was Callidora—”

“It was all Isla’s fault—”

_“QUIET!”_

Hermione Granger—Minister of Magic, mother of two children, and wife to a third—was seething.

She made her way out of the fireplace and toward her family.

“You,” she started with Bellatrix, “if you want to lay in my bed ever again, will refrain from commentary.” This had Bellatrix cross her arms and roll her eyes, while Callidora managed a grimace at the thought of her parents in bed together. They looked almost identical in their annoyance.

“Oh, please do continue making faces,” Hermione snapped. “You’re both building a wonderful case for yourselves.”

“And you,” Hermione began, and snapped her fingers in front of Isla’s red and down-turned face to demand her attention, _“both of you,_ if you want to spend another second of your youth ungrounded, if you want to even dream about having friends, a social life, an _inch_ of unmonitored freedom ever again while you live in my house, _will answer me._ Because I’m quite sure that the letter my secretary received, that she had to interrupt the trial I was presiding over to relay to me, I will repeat, that she had to _stop Ministry proceedings_ to bring to me, and to Charles bloody Fletcher, the bane of my existence who initiates petitions for my impeachment once a month, who lives for anything he can hold over my head, who will not rest until I am no longer in office, which might well be soon based on the PR disaster this is inevitably going to turn into—I’m quite sure that letter could not possibly be accurate. I’m quite sure I’ve taught you two better. I’m quite sure you are not animals and could not possibly have done what people are alleging you’ve done, because you’ve _got_ to have _more effing sense_ than that. So I will ask you one more time, because I want to hear it from your mouths.”

She leaned in and her eyes flashed with barely tempered fury.

“What did you do? And what the _hell_ is going on?”

As Minerva sat back in her chair, bit into a biscuit, and let Hermione take over the interrogation, she almost felt sorry for the children.

Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-shot but quickly got out of hand. I'm not sure how long it will end up but I'm aiming for around five parts. Bellamione will be featured more in the upcoming chapters and Isla will be explored more thoroughly as well!
> 
> All unanswered questions will be answered. Rating will be earned eventually.
> 
> Until next time~


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